


One Way it Could Have Happened

by jaborthedemon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, John's Jumpers, John's POV, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaborthedemon/pseuds/jaborthedemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first kiss, and what happens afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Way it Could Have Happened

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is pure, plotless smut. With that being said, I take my smut pretty seriously and John and Sherlock are in character. More chapters will be added, if I am feeling up to it ... :)

The first kiss happened suddenly and without provocation, the way most of Sherlock's behaviors play out. I wasn't expecting it at all. Newspaper article in front of me was about a burglary just down the street and as I turned to let him in on it, there he was. He caught my mouth half open with his, and with his eyes closed and his breath held, he kissed me. 

I'm not sure I know enough words to describe how I felt in that moment. I'd like to say it was a good feeling, but that would be a stretch. I was shocked primarily, driven to paralysis. My mind felt like it was spinning out of control (probably only a quarter of the speed of Sherlock's on any given day). I was vaguely aware of a pounding coming from my chest and a prickling heat flooding my face. 

My next instinct was to push him away. I don't think I had formed any rational thoughts by this point. It's just in my nature to react physically when someone grabs me. Remnant of a violent past, perhaps? Sherlock sensed my plan and leaned away before that instinct could kick in. He didn't go far. Just far enough to quell the fear response that culminated in a few nervous twitches of the fingers on my left hand. Then he threw away all pretense of caution and kissed me again. 

Now I had enough time to grab him by the collar—he was wearing that deep purple dress shirt today—and give him one good shake away from me. He fell back as far as my hands would allow, as they were tangled as fists in his shirt, and the breath I had forced out of him chilled my wet lips. I held him there, inches away from me, and I was angry. I wanted an explanation. 

“Not good?” he asked seriously. 

I knew he wasn't referring to the quality of the kiss, which I hadn't even begun to consider. He asked me this question sometimes when he was looking for moral guidance. When he'd done something wrong and suspected he had. I would always affirm those suspicions. Not good to laugh at a corpse, Sherlock. Not good to poke fun at Molly's date. Not good to belittle the client's concerns. Not good to call the crime brilliant in front of the victim. I wanted to give him the same affirmation now, because damned if kissing me without my consent was “good” in my book. But I sat there silently, holding on to him until my clenched fingers began to ache. 

The silence became awkward. I don't like awkward silences, and I don't like being the brunt of Sherlock's jokes. Some ridiculous experiment I wasn't privy to, probably. And Christ, I had a wife at home and a baby on the way. He'd taken it too far. Why now? The thought took me by surprise. Why at all? I corrected myself. 

I don't know when it happened but my hold must have slackened because Sherlock's mouth was suddenly against mine again, more urgently this time. I've punched Sherlock for lesser offenses, but my hands were resting uselessly on his shoulders, unwilling for some reason to harm him. Beyond that I wasn't responding. His lips—soft—moved over mine with barely concealed desperation. The small, wet popping sounds embarrassed the hell out of me, and I found my own lips automatically responding just to offset the noise. 

Before I knew it, we were mutually snogging. I don't know how it happened. I sat in my chair with my head back while he leaned over me, and we continued until our lips started to hurt, until I accidentally let my tongue flicker forward and it brushed his, and he shuddered and whimpered and I was gone. My tongue surged against his, and after a few moments of what I can only assume was observation he responded in turn and God, it felt good. The way his tongue curled around mine, wet and warm and subtly textured. We chased each other around this way, our entire beings wrapped up in these little pink muscles that rubbed, sparred, slipped out into the open now and then between kisses we didn't complete in unison. It was amazing. I had never been kissed like this. 

I still wasn't thinking clearly by the time Sherlock pulled away. I blinked my eyes open and the fear and the anger came back in a rush. I lifted my hands to take Sherlock by the throat but he was expecting it and had hold of my wrists before I could strangle him. 

“Sherlock,” I said, and I was unhappy at how hoarse and small I sounded. 

“John,” he responded softly, and in the way he whispered my name was all the deep and unspoken sentiment he had never addressed with me. That I had never addressed with him. That I didn't want to address, not right now. Not ever. 

“Mary,” I said. One word. One word that I knew could stop him. 

I immediately regretted that I had said it. He released my wrists. His expression, which had been one of dreamy wistfulness, became little more than an indifferent wall. It was like watching a drunk man sober up in an instant, disorienting and inhuman. I felt my stomach turn over with anxiety. Sherlock was retracting himself from me, taking the warmth and excitement with him that I hadn't even known was there until it was gone. 

“No,” I said pathetically. “Wait.” 

But his mind was made up. His morality had been checked by invoking Mary's name. And that's not even her name. He thought he knew exactly what I was thinking. He didn't want to drag me down with him into this adulterous pit, maybe. He wanted to do the right thing by me. I saw it all in his face and I wanted to scream at him that honestly, I really didn't feel as bad as I thought I would and it was all just an excuse for something I couldn't admit to myself even privately. 

“I'm not—I'm not gay,” I heard myself say. 

“Right,” came his reply. 

Sherlock had never commented on any proclamation of my sexuality so far. We had been in countless situations up to this point where we had been assumed lovers, and I had always been the only one to refute the claims. Not that Sherlock ever showed any positive reaction to the rumors, but I had grown accustomed to his silence on the matter. A clear “I'm not gay” had always cut the tension for me, and that's all I needed. Easier than saying, I don't want to talk about it. 

But now Sherlock had responded, and agreed with me, and it hit me like a train. What did I want him to say? Yes, you are? I don't believe you? For a moment I was reminded of the day Irene Adler had answered in a way that I couldn't even rebuff. Everything was so complicated to me, so why did she seem to get it? And why couldn't someone as brilliant as Sherlock get it too? Why did it have to be this way? What was clear to me was this: Sherlock would never try this again if I didn't speak up now. And for some reason I couldn't bear it. 

“But it's fine,” I continued. “It's fine if you want to...” 

As withdrawn as he had become, he was still quite close to me. I could see the creases deepen between his eyebrows as he made a concerted effort to figure me out. He stared at me. I had run out of things to say. All I could do was wait while he collected visual information from me sitting there. Maybe the size of my eyes would give something away, or the undone button at the top of my shirt, or maybe the perfect shave I'd attempted this morning. Even nicked myself like a teenager on the razor trying to get it as smooth as possible. And for what? For you. 

Sherlock approached me again, this time cradling the back of my skull in his palms. I was immediately lightheaded. He must have been pressing on an occipital nerve, and I wondered dully whether he was doing it on purpose. This time when his lips met mine I reacted favorably right away. It only took us moments to reach our previous fervor, and then that wasn't enough. I reached forward and pulled on the top buttons of Sherlock's shirt, actually breaking one loose in my clumsy efforts. 

If he was irritated, he didn't show it. He turned his face to the side, exposing his long, white throat to my hands. The gesture was a serious one. Sherlock, who would almost always keep himself concealed under the scarf, who would probably rather take his own life than be truly vulnerable in the presence of another person, was offering up his throat to me like some kind of submissive animal. I couldn't help but feel compelled by the touching gesture. 

I also couldn't help but notice just how powerfully built he was, even if it was an elegant stretch of flesh. I could see long chords of muscle straining slightly under his white skin, a subtle pattern of blue veins decorating him like some one of a kind painting. His pulse was visible, as was the bobbing of his adam's apple as he swallowed expectantly. I had seen so many body parts in my time as a soldier and a doctor, some of them quite beautiful, but nothing like this. Nothing. 

He had let go of my head by now, giving me the space I needed to put my hands around his neck. I wasn't going to kiss him there—trail white-hot kisses down his neck? Sounded like some cheesy romance book. And nothing in any of those books could prepare me for putting my mouth on another man's throat, let alone Sherlock's. So instead I settled for something suitably aggressive to offset my discomfort. I squeezed. I squeezed him with slowly mounting pressure until his breath came unevenly. Until what was likely a moan caught in his windpipe and came out soundlessly. Until I felt my hands growing slick with sweat, mine or his I couldn't tell. 

As a doctor I knew how much I could push him before I did any real damage. He trusted me completely, and he never made a move to stop me. I relinquished my hold just an instant before he blacked out. Uncoordinated and gasping he fell onto my lap. I pulled him into a hug and he leaned his head on my shoulder. His soft curls tickled my jaw as he took shaky inhalations. I breathed slowly and evenly, inviting him to match my pace. As he came back to his senses I marveled at the size of his body, much longer than mine but somehow graceful enough to curl up against me without trouble, light enough not to make me uncomfortable. 

We sat like that for some time before Sherlock moved his hands tentatively to my middle. I watched him with nervous anticipation as he pulled my shirt from the waist of my trousers, one torturous inch at a time. Once he'd freed the tails of my shirt I expected him to start unbuttoning it from the bottom or something, but instead he slipped his hand up underneath to press against my bare stomach. His hand was warm but I flinched as if hit with ice. I wasn't in the best shape of my life, and I was especially self conscious about the few extra inches I'd accumulated there over the past few years. But I wasn't about to stop him now—I'd already betrayed my weakness by wincing. 

I could make out the form of Sherlock's knuckles under the fabric of my shirt as he stroked my stomach. His touch was incredibly gentle and loving, and I felt my cheeks flush. He was slow and deliberate in his movements, giving ample time to every bit he could reach at this angle, even slipping his fingertips under the tiny extra bit that hung over my pants to smooth away the ache of a tight waistband. I realized then that what he was doing was the second half of a equivalent exchange. Trading one self conscious body part for another and allowing the other person to put that inhibition to rest. Why Sherlock would be self conscious of that beautiful, lengthy throat was beyond me, but it wasn't my issue to understand. As long as he felt accepted. Maybe choking him wasn't the best way of relieving his fears? 

I was suddenly worried about how Sherlock might react to the kind of man I was, sexually. Sherlock didn't seem it to most people but I knew that he was incredibly sensitive. And on top of that, his sensitive parts were hard to understand. What if I made the wrong move? What if I went too far and frightened him? I didn't know much about intimacy with a man, but I found the idea of treating him as gently as I would a female partner at odds with my instincts. Already something aggressive and primal was stirring deep within me. I would never hurt Sherlock, but I wasn't about to treat him like glass.

That's when he put his hand down the front of my trousers. He had unbuttoned and unzipped them while I was lost in thought, and he wasted no time seeking me out. I was already hard, and it wasn't difficult to find me, trapped against my left thigh. His touch, separated from me by the thin fabric of my underwear, sent a tremendous shiver through my body. 

“Oh, God,” I murmured. 

“Not quite,” he answered with surprising deviousness. And then, “Say my name.” 

“Sherlock,” I obeyed. 

“Again,” he said quietly, his fingers exploring me as well as they could in the tight confines of the jeans. 

I sensed that for Sherlock his demands were less about control and more about being reassured. Encouraged.

“Sherlock,” I said, “Sherlock, don't stop.” 

The request seemed to incite something in him. Somehow his big hand had found proper purchase on me and was stroking, stroking, stroking so well until I realized that if he kept going on like this, he could finish me. Not wanting that to happen so quickly, I stilled his hand with mine. He finally looked up at me, blue eyes wide. Wondering if he'd done something wrong, again. His concern and his innocence were mortifying. I resisted the urge to pat his head and comfort him.

“Feels too good,” I admitted. 

“Too good?” he asked skeptically. For a moment his hand started its ministrations once again, and my head fell back with a moan. 

 

“Yes, too good, Sherlock. I'll come.” 

I saw him blink a few times, perhaps at the bluntness with which I warned him. He was gone for a moment, processing something mentally. I didn't pretend to know exactly what it was, but I loved watching him think. And considering that he was likely thinking of me climaxing off of his touch, it was enough to send another tremor down my legs. 

Sherlock knelt before me and began to open his own shirt. His fingers passed over the broken button with a sigh. Nothing that couldn't be fixed, I guessed. A few moments later he was shrugging the shirt from his shoulders, exposing smooth, trained muscle. For the second time that night I felt distressed about the state of my own body but then, I saw it. The scar. 

I sat up and touched it without asking. Mary's bullet, the one that had almost taken Sherlock from me. The wound was long past hurting, but the skin was raw and pink in a way that would never heal. He was very still while I explored it, looking down at me, probably gauging my reaction. I knew I was scowling, and I didn't try to hide it. One word continued to jump out at me as my fingers circled the scar—unforgivable. Despite how hard I might try to convince myself, or Mary for that matter, I couldn't lay this sort of thing to rest. Never.

“It's just a little thing,” Sherlock assured softly. I looked up at him and saw that he was concerned for me. My thoughts must have been plastered on my face. It didn't really matter; Sherlock didn't need to be the master of deduction he was to know I was pissed. 

“This little thing,” I said, and I could hear a volcano of anger bubbling just under the surface, “This little thing could have killed you.”

“Would have,” he corrected. 

“What?” 

“Would have killed me,” he explained. 

I shook my head. I didn't have time to sort out his cryptic messages. I was having enough trouble dealing with the fact that he was here, allowing himself to be touched by another human being without pulling some sort of prank. A part of me was still waiting for a camera crew led by Lestrade to pop out of the bathroom pointing and laughing. 

“It was up to me, in the end.” Sherlock put his hand over mine, pressing it flat to his chest. He seemed mostly calm on the exterior, but I could see the way he was chewing his lip as he chose his words. “I was about to let go. Moriarty was there.” 

“Moriarty?” I searched his face for answers. 

“Somewhere, deep inside me.” He pushed my hand down more firmly, as if I might be able to feel the lunatic kicking around inside. Nothing but Sherlock's racing heart. Mine was quickening as well. 

“It was just the two of us,” he continued. “And I thought, this is fine. Anything to escape this horrible pain.” 

I felt a lump form in my throat and I swallowed it with some discomfort. 

“I couldn't do it,” he admitted. “I wasn't going to make it. It wouldn't matter much in the grand scheme of things if I died. Easier for everyone, probably. Even you. But then Moriarty said something to me. About you. He mentioned the danger you w--” 

I cut him off with another kiss. I didn't need to hear the rest. Sherlock had more or less confessed to me that he'd brought himself back from the dead to keep me safe. Me. I don't know how possible that is, but if it were at all possible then Sherlock would be the one to do it. And here I thought he was worried about Mary when he first awoke in that hospital bed. I still felt choked up, and his assumption that it would be easier on any of us, especially me, was enough to set me off. I didn't care how overemotional it seemed when I pulled him close and hugged him and buried my face in the hollow of his collarbone.

“John,” he said, a bit strained from the angle at which he was pinned. 

“Just shut up,” I told him. “And never, never assume.” 

“Assume what?” 

“That it'd be easier for me, hm?” I paused, steadying my voice. “That it would be easier for anyone. You're an idiot to go around deciding for anyone else that it would—look, Sherlock.” Never was the best at explaining these kinds of things. I let my unrelenting hug do the rest of the talking. 

When I finally let him go, he was smiling big. No, he didn't. Tell me he wasn't joking. I thought I might kill him right there in our flat, but he cleared things up before I acted on my impulse. 

“We're never going to get these clothes off if we keep talking.” 

That was to the point. I could appreciate it, to be honest, and I knew it was a concerted effort on Sherlock's part. I watched him stand and start on the button of his trousers. He was really doing this. He never stopped, but I thought I saw his hands shaking. In the end whatever shyness he may have had he fought off internally and it wasn't long before he was standing before me, completely in the nude. 

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. Was I supposed to stare? Was I supposed to comment? His lungs contracted and expanded against the walls of his torso. Everything was long and smooth and white. I'm not sure what I expected. Sherlock was one of the best dressed, well groomed men I had ever met. It made logical sense that he would be so exquisitely manicured, nearly hairless but for the carefully maintained bit that trailed from his navel to surround his half awakened sex. 

“What?” he said, startling me. 

“Sherlock,” I managed, “You're...”

“Naked, yes,” he said almost dismissively. “And you would be, too, if you weren't wasting time gawking.” 

I appreciated his biting remarks, as obvious as he was being with them. It cut the tension for us both and made it easier to stand and start pulling off the maroon jumper I was wearing. I fumbled a bit nervously with the buttons of my shirt. Sherlock stared. I felt like a damn kid, undressing for the first time in front of a cute date, too excited to work my limbs properly. I don't think I've ever stripped down for a look-see before getting off with someone. It was completely unnerving. By the time I stepped out of my trousers and underpants, Sherlock's eyes were palpable on my skin. If being observed by him on a regular day was too invasive, the level now was incomprehensible. What was he thinking? I felt as if I were blushing from head to toe. Best not to look nervous. I straightened my hunched shoulders and raised my chin to meet his piercing gaze. 

We peered into each other's eyes for a few moments, proud and unrelenting and standing like statues in what we felt were our best and most attractive angles. The situation was alarming, incredibly erotic, and apparently completely fucking hilarious. We burst out laughing, all snorts and giggles, Sherlock putting a hand up to his open mouth to staunch the snickering. I heard myself making happy sounds I rarely have occasion to make. The laughter made me feel drunk and affectionate and I just wanted to grab Sherlock and hug him forever. Yeah, I was a bit of a sap in that moment. 

“All right, enough.” he said, suddenly all business. I snapped to attention, slightly disoriented. Sherlock had his fists firmly planted against his hips and he was looking me over yet again. I suppressed a shiver. “Do you want it sitting or standing?” 

“Sorry?” I asked. 

“Sitting,” he repeated slowly, as if talking to an invalid, “or standing?” 

“Want what, exactly?” I was convinced my organs had all traded places inside of me.

He considered me, wondering maybe if I was slow. Of course I had some idea what he was getting at, but the particulars were important in a case like this. I could hardly believe this was happening at all. I wasn't about to assume. 

“Sitting,” he decided for me before approaching and pushing me back towards my chair. I collapsed onto it with very little resistance as my body had grown weak with his proximity. Sherlock was on his knees between my legs soon after and it became very clear what he had been suggesting. 

He wet his lips and blinked down at my cock. It was already anticipating what he might do to it, pulsing subtly with each beat of my heart. I realized, as I watched him watching me, that he might be nervous. I reached out and stroked his cheek with the back of my knuckles. 

“You don't have to do this, Sherlock,” I told him as gently as possible. “None of this.” 

He shrugged me off with a patronized look and a sarcastic remark. “And here I was feeling forced.”

“You know what I mean,” I pressed. 

Sherlock surprised me by taking me firmly in one of his warm hands. I couldn't suppress the sudden pleasured groan that escaped my throat. He wrapped his fingers around me and tugged, lightly. How such a simple action could make me so dizzy, I don't know. Just knowing it was Sherlock was enough. He continued with slow, deliberate pumps of his fist, his eyes flitting between what he was doing and my face. Gauging my reaction. It was hard to keep my eyes open while he was doing this to me, but I'd be damned before I was going to miss a thing. 

“That's nice,” I encouraged huskily. “Really nice.” 

“Is it?” he asked, and maybe he was blushing. “You'd like it better if I put it in my mouth.” 

I startled. Sherlock never ceased to shock me with his blunt naivety. Had he deduced the statement he just made? Honestly, in this moment I couldn't think of anything better than what he was already giving me. I grinned down at him, taking in the sight of him at work on me, making assumptions about things he hadn't yet attempted. 

“Would I?” I challenged. 

Oh God, yes. He was right. Sherlock's mouth was warm, wet, snug. I could feel his lips stretching to accommodate me, his hot tongue helplessly trapped against my length the further he took me. He started out strong and bold, overpowering my senses in an instant. The suction, the sounds, the way he managed every bit of me as if it weren't enough to gag him—and it must have been, because I could feel myself lodged in his tightened throat every time he lowered his head. His curls tickled my bare thighs when he took me all the way, and I felt him swallow around me now and then. My muscles were impossibly tight, toes curled, lungs overworked, fingers gripping desperately the arms of my chair. Whenever I happened to glance down at him, naked and pale and curled up between my knees, my vision would practically double.

“Oh, Sherl—Christ, Sherlock,” I cried, “That's—wow, that's—please don't stop—my God—” My attempts to describe to him how I was feeling were pathetic. Gasps, whimpers, unfinished sentences here and there. With what shreds of decency I retained I repressed the urge to buck my hips against him. I don't know what I had expected, but this was beyond anything I could ever imagine. This was amazing. This was perfect. Sherlock was perfect.

I felt myself nearing my limit, and suddenly it was all I wanted in the world. This was happening. This was really happening, and it felt so good. I used what I knew were my last few moments to look down again at Sherlock when I saw something that snatched me back from the edge. His eyes, shut very tight, lashes clumped together with tears that his straining must have produced, all of him working hard to please me. The best way I can describe it is the look of someone who has hunkered down and chosen to ride out the storm, waiting for it to pass. Bearing it until it was over. Horrified, I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him loose. 

“Sherlock!” I yelled. 

“J-John?” he stammered with surprise. He was gasping and pink cheeked. There was a bit of drool glistening on his chin, and his chest heaved with the necessary breaths my cock had prevented him from taking. “What's wrong? Did I—did I do something wrong?” 

“Yes!” I shouted, and for a moment I thought he would break into a thousand pieces. “No,” I rephrased quickly, “No, not what you think.” I waited for his breathing to calm. 

“Were you even enjoying it?” I asked.

His look was one of bewilderment. “Of course I was.” 

“You weren't,” I said. “You were just...”  
“I was doing what I knew you'd like best,” he said, his confusion giving way to the tone he'd use on something he found quite tedious. “Was I wrong?” 

For a moment my resolve flickered. Did I seriously just imagine that Sherlock wasn't enjoying himself and destroy this new facet of our relationship? He was doing everything right. My fantasy and more, really. But the image of his face was still clear in my memory, and I didn't need help in deducing what that meant. 

“No, Sherlock. You weren't wrong.” 

“Then,” he said with finality. “Stop talking.” He moved towards me. 

“No,” I said again, halting him in his tracks. “Yeah, it felt great. It felt more than great. It felt—yeah, it was perfect. I just...”

He lifted a brow. His hands were heavy on my thighs. My body was at terrible odds with my conscience, right now. 

“You definitely weren't into it.” There, I said it. “You were just doing what you thought needed to be done, or something.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, much to my chagrin. “You were almost there.” 

I noticed he hadn't outright refuted what I said. He noticed that I noticed, and started up again. “I was enjoying it. You were enjoying it. I wanted it to be perfect for you and you said it was. So what's the problem?” 

His hostility was a cover up, I knew it. It may have felt as if Sherlock was a seasoned expert, but I knew it was his first time. He'd gone in too deep, too fast, and all for me. Maybe it was what he had intended but it certainly wasn't what was best for him. Maybe he couldn't even admit it to himself, and that is why he couldn't hide it properly from me now. I know what I saw. I struggled for the proper words. 

“Don't do it the way you think I want it,” I said. 

“Don't quite see the point, then.” 

I ignored that. “Do it the way you want to do it.” He opened his mouth to protest and I held up a finger. “No, don't speak. Just listen. Just for a minute. Do it the way you want to do it, if you even want to at all. If not, I don't mind.” He took an irritated, preparatory breath and I cut him off again. “You proved yourself, okay? I get it. Anything you want to do now, no matter what, would feel good. Really good. So please...”

Sherlock surveyed me through slitted eyes. My heart responded erratically, but I wasn't worried about what he would see in me. I told him what I meant. I'm not sure why I was getting so emotional over a good blowjob, I never had before, but this was different somehow. Almost like if I had let myself go back there I would have been taking advantage of him. Wasting him. And I wasn't going to do that. If this was going to happen, it wasn't going to be a result of Sherlock's detached calculation of my preferences. I wanted something real. Beyond that, I didn't have much of a clue what I was getting myself into. 

When Sherlock's lips hesitantly brushed my sex again a few seconds later it was with a kiss. I'd never been kissed there before, and I think I giggled in surprise because he glanced up at me sharply. 

“No,” I assured, “I like that. That's good.” 

He scanned my face for a lie and, finding none, kissed again. It twitched at his touch. He continued, some of the kisses incredibly chaste for those you'd plant on a penis, others more open mouthed and slippery. He was slow and exploratory, eventually using his tongue to lick gently, tenderly. He mapped out the shaft, left no bit of me unexplored. I couldn't help but feel as if he were investigating me with the acuteness of his senses the way he might a crime scene, and somehow I found that ridiculous notion incredibly arousing. 

“Learning anything interesting?” I asked with a smile and a gasp. Much more of this and it'd all be over.

“Mmm,” he responded with his mouth around me, and the deep vibrations of his voice crippled my ability to remain dignified. I think I whimpered his name. 

He released me and considered my state. “About thirty-two seconds before you'll finish,” he warned matter-of-factly. “If I keep going on like this.” 

“Thirty-two?” I panted, a bit winded from this roller coaster of feelings. “How can you possibly know that?” 

He grinned the sort of grin that frightens sane people but intrigues me. The one he gets on his face when he's so pleased with himself that he can barely contain a verbal explanation for his brilliance. I imagined at any moment he might go on about the number of milliliters of blood in my cock or the apparent tensile strength of my erection, maybe the color of its head or the exact angle at which it connected to my torso. And yet he did none of this. He simply went down on me again, and I knew that he was so right. I stopped him. 

“Oh, what now?” came his annoyed response. 

I think he knew my intentions before I did because his expression suddenly turned serious, even a bit anxious. I could feel the tension building and the realization hit me that I wasn't about to let Sherlock Holmes get me off in the middle of the living room like this. No. Not that it wouldn't have been amazing. Not that I wouldn't have been satisfied. But after getting this far, it wasn't going to end like this. I was going to have him properly.


End file.
